


Where We Use Our Given Names

by Kevin_DesertBluffs



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Casimir has problems, Childhood Trauma, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, John tries his best, M/M, Past Abuse, Time Travel, Tommy is a good person, Underage Drinking, apprenticeship mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-28 14:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16725120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kevin_DesertBluffs/pseuds/Kevin_DesertBluffs
Summary: Casimir is not the sort of person you would look twice at if you passed him walking down the street. He also isn't the sort of person who would look at you first. Or maybe he would, and disappear with a grin, just to see what you'd do.OrTommy finds an immortal in the Garrison one day. He decides to stay, and they both help each other in more ways than either of them would have thought possible____This is a certified not-creepy fic. although Casimir is 307, neither his body or his mind has aged past 15, so he is 15 for all purposes of relationships. none of that "oh, but they're technically older so it's ok" bullshit. No pedophilia on my watch. Just wanted to make that absolutely clear.





	1. We’ll talk it over in the morning

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is set after the end of season 2, before the wedding, kind of in that two-year period that was unaccounted for.  
> Thanks to @When_Tommy_Met_Alfie for beta reading this, and giving me really great critique!

Casimir liked to think of himself as calm, cool, and collected. He was very often none of these things. When he was, there was always a bit of a nervous twitch behind his blank façade, as if there was something coming. After 307 years on this earth, he learned that there always was.

Casimir was either endearing or infuriating, depending on how you looked at it, and depending on his mood at that particular moment. For anyone else, 307 years spent hopping between every human civilization to ever exist, lacking the power to change anything, might make you bitter, or perhaps you might just become wise.

 But for Caz, it just made him more nervous. Perhaps had he been older when he stopped aging, he might have reacted differently. As it was, being an unaccompanied fifteen year-old, a little too easily intimidated, was never a good thing, in any situation or civilization.

Of course, some decades were nice, and some people were, as well, but they got blended into the stew of his memories.

Actually, it was more like sludge. The good tastes weakened the bad, but the result was still bitter and poisonous.

It didn’t matter, anyway. It’s not like he could stay long in any one place, or any one time, no matter how good it was. After a while, people were bound to notice he never grew older.

He wasn’t quite sure WHAT would make him start aging again. He had tried a million things, and still had a million ideas of things to try, but some part of him knew that the only thing that would work, was going back.

Something he would never do.

So, he continued living young. Days became weeks, weeks turned into years, years morphed into decades, and decades blended into centuries, all spinning round and round in his head, only the first fifteen fully distinguishable from the rest. Everything he could have done, everything he should have done, and everything he should have been doing these past centuries breaking into jagged parts and lodging themselves in his mind, until he found himself in a small pub with a glass of whiskey in his hand and no idea how he got there, or how he was able to order alcohol.

He didn’t even look fifteen, much less of legal age. Whatever that happened to be, here and now.

Wherever “here” was. Whenever “now” was.

Had he been sober, he probably would not have asked the man sitting next to him.

The man had a newsboy cap, and a strange look on his face, either from the odd question, or the fact that a boy who looked about 13 was sitting at the bar counter, nursing a whiskey, and staring back at him like he had seen far more than he cared to. It probably didn’t help that Casimir was wearing an 18th century Russian military uniform coat. He could barely even remember why, but it seemed normal. Like it was just a part of him. Then why did he feel so out of place?

Regardless, the man informed him that he was in a pub called The Garrison, and that it was 11 o’clock pm.

This bit of information was far, far, too specific to be of any use, but it would be unwise to press further.

Unfortunately, he was too drunk to be aware of this fact.

“I meant, what city is this, what country is this, and what year is this?” He asked again, thankful that he did not slur his words

The man seemed a bit taken aback. “Fuck, mate, Aren’t you a bit young to forget all of that?” It seemed as though he wanted to comment on Casimir’s appearance, but thought better of it.

“I’m 307. Are you going to tell me where I am, or not?”

Fortunately, the man took it as sarcasm, and laughed. “Alright. You’re in Birmingham, England, and the year is 1923.” The man paused. “Oi, where’re your parents? Do they know where you are?”

Caz drained his glass and set it back down on the table.

“They most certainly do not. In fact, they can’t really know much of anything at this point, can they? Probably dead. But who really knows. After all, I’m here, aren’t I?”

 “Yeah, well, see, that’s my question. Why are you here? I mean, fuck, we shouldn’t even be serving you. No way you’re an adult.”

Caz rubbed his temple, wanting to argue that he was most certainly an adult, several times over, but realizing that it would do no good. “I honestly don’t know. I didn’t even know where I was until about five minutes ago. The last place I remember being was… Kraków. I think. God, I don’t even know.” He let his head slump to the table. He knew he was oversharing, but the effects of his last time leap, or what he assumed must have been a time leap (there was no other explanation), were wearing off, and he was too tired to care.

“Kraków? What, Poland?” The man laughed, “I assume you don’t have a place to stay, then. It’s late, and you’re clearly drunk out of your mind. I’m going to see if I can’t convince Tommy to let you stay in one of the spare rooms.”

 “Yeah, fine. Thanks.” He heard the man’s footsteps receding, and then muffled voices talking (most likely about what to do with the strange drunk “child” they found in their pub.) The voices quieted, and he heard two sets of footsteps walking back to his stool. He heard and unfamiliar deep voice murmur something along the lines of, “What the fuck is he wearing?” Who did the man say he was getting? Was it Tommy? The unfamiliar voice told him he could stay the night.

The last thing he remembered was stumbling up the stairs to a warm room with a fireplace. He barely caught the man’s name, John, before he passed out on the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I forgot how the house and stuff was laid out, so this is probably really screwy.


	2. Sweet, sweet curiosity led me to this street.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casimir wakes up in the Shelby house, and meets Tommy formally for the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! more to come soon. I'm thinking of making this go throughout the events of all the seasons after season two.

Casimir awoke in an unfamiliar room. He barely remembered the night before. But from what he did remember, he drew the conclusion that he would have a _lot_ of explaining to do.

Fuck.

This had never happened before. He rarely got drunk; he needed to be able to trust his senses and motor control. And he _never_ told anyone. He was usually able to keep a good hold of himself. He was usually able to get out before someone got attached to him, or offered him something he didn’t want, or couldn’t repay.

Hopefully his hosts wouldn’t mind when they awoke to find him gone.

He looked around the room. It was relatively small, but they had somehow squeezed in an armchair and a fireplace, along with the bed. There was a window on the far wall, overlooking an alleyway. Judging by the way the light was shining through the window, it was probably already 9 o’clock.

Damn.

 If he didn’t get out fast, he was sure to meet someone on his way out, and that would be an uncomfortable conversation, to say the least.

He leapt out of bed, and whirled around, looking for his coat, before he remembered that he had never taken it off. He had had nothing else with him, either. Not even shoes. He left the room and shut the door behind him silently.

Maybe if he was quiet enough, he could slip out undetected. He was good being quiet. He crept down the stairs. This would work. He only needed to leave the building. Then, he could find somewhere else to stay. Somewhere with people he didn’t know. Somewhere he could blend in. He reached the bottom of the stairs, and turned the corner.

And found himself face to face with the man from last night. John. He froze.

“Look who’s risen from the dead! I was just coming to get you.” John greeted him with a smile and a clap on the back. Caz flinched, but John didn’t seem to notice, “I don’t think I’ve even properly introduced myself. John Shelby.” He held out his hand.

Caz took it. “Casimir Harper. I’ve got to be going now. Thank you for the room.” He tried to push past him.

John put a hand out to stop him. “Hey, Whoa. You can’t leave, not before you’ve met your host. I’ve got to introduce you to Tommy.”

Oh, god, this was exactly what he was hoping to avoid.

“He’s just through here.” John put an arm around his shoulder as they walked into a connecting room. It might have been a friendly gesture, but more than likely it was to keep him from running.

And he would have, if he thought it even remotely possible for him to overpower John. He did _not_ want to meet Tommy, whoever he was. There were many possible outcomes to the “meeting the boss” scenario, and none of them were pleasant. At least, he had never experienced a pleasant one. He didn’t even have a believable backstory in mind to tell when they started asking questions. He knew almost nothing about the 1920’s, much less _Birmingham_ , of all places. The last time he was in this decade was almost a century ago, and he had been in India, not England.

What was he to tell them? Certainly not the truth. That might land him in a mental institution. He could refuse to speak, but then they’d never let him go. He could feign complete amnesia, but then they’d want to keep him until he remembered. He could shout and scream at them to let him leave, but who knew what they’d do then. He shuddered at the thought.

As they came to a door, John’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “Right in here, mate.” He took his arm from around Casimir’s shoulder, and opened the door.

Inside was a man sitting at a desk, working. He looked up as they came in. He was wearing nearly the same thing as John, and had a haircut that was just as ridiculous; Nearly bald on the sides; just the top covered. Caz might have laughed if it wasn’t for the man’s cold eyes.

“Here he is, Tommy, should I stay, or…” John gestured to the door. Tommy waved him out.

He kept that frigid gaze fixed on Caz, taking in his appearance. He felt extremely out of place. His shirt was far too large for him, and his breeches buttoned around the knees, unlike the crisp suits the men were wearing. He still had no shoes.

And of course there was his coat. It was the most out-of-place thing he had on, but also the only one that was really _his_. It wasn’t technically his to begin with, but he’d had it long enough that it didn’t matter. The previous owner was in no shape to take it back.

Tommy lit a cigarette. “I checked with the parish. There are many records of runaway boys, but none fit your description, Polish or not.”

Caz shifted. He’d forgot he’d said that. Another mistake. This was bad. If he got sent to an orphanage, he might be there for a while. From his experience, orphanages watched children obsessively, so there would never be a moment to slip away unnoticed.

“Regardless,” Tommy continued, “I’ve never seen you before, so I doubt you’ve been here more than a couple of days. Could have taken the train in, but the conductors never saw you either. Neither did the police. Unlikely they would have forgotten you.” He looked very pointedly at Caz’s jacket. It would be impossible to forget, in this city. Everything else was grey.

“So, my only question is, how did you manage to get into my bar last night without a single person in the city seeing you?”

This was tough to answer. There were only a few things he could say that would let the matter drop. The rest would backfire spectacularly, and land him somewhere he desperately did not want to be. The only problem is, he wasn’t entirely sure which was which.

“I stole rides on the backs of stopped automobiles, late last night.” They had cars now, didn’t they? He thought he remembered seeing one somewhere around here. He continued, “I Snuck through alleys the rest of the way. Your bar was the closest refuge I could find.” Of course none of it was true, but until he knew how to read this man, he would stick to straight, believable answers, or as close to believable as he could get with his limited knowledge of the present. Unfortunately, Tommy seemed to be trying very hard to keep his face as neutral and unreadable as possible.

Or maybe that was just how he always looked.

“And where did you get the money for that rather expensive whiskey you purchased?”

This was harder. If he answered honestly, and Tommy took offense, things could get very bad, very fast. But Tommy seemed like the type to take more offense if he was lied to. He also seemed like the type who would be able to tell. He took a risk.

“I’m a very good pickpocket.”

“Are you now.” Tommy tipped his head to the side, stare burning holes in Caz’s head, his expression still unchanged. “And did you happen to use any of your ‘skills’ on my customers last night?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie.”

It seemed Caz was correct in his earlier assessment. He lowered his gaze. Looking down, he noticed he was fidgeting, and tried to still his hands. “I didn’t. Well, maybe I did. I don’t think I would have remembered if I had.”

Tommy put out his cigarette. “I see. Well, I’ll call the parish. I’m sure they’ll figure out what to do with you.” He made a move to walk over to the phone on the far wall.

This was going spectacularly in the wrong direction. He stepped in front of Tommy, blocking the phone. “No! Wait! Don’t! Listen to me. I can work for you. I’m useful.”

Tommy stopped, startled for a moment, but quickly regained his composure. “Do you know what we do, beyond just bartending?”

Caz looked away. “N-no, not really, but I believe my skills can be useful in any position.” He didn’t know what this strange company really was, but he had a hunch.

“Really. And what might those be?”

“I’m good at math and I can read and write and speak 42 different languages…”

“Very impressive, but not exactly a skill set that would be useful for our line of work.” Tommy made a move toward the phone, but Caz stepped in front of him again. 

“…As well as accurately aim and fire any weapon, including a musket and a bow and arrow. I’m also proficient with longswords and daggers, and I can slip in and out of virtually anywhere undetected. Furthermore, through extensive experience, I remain completely unconvinced it’s even possible for me to die.” He knew he was telling too much, but he was desperate. If this didn’t convince Tommy, it would at least pique his curiosity

Tommy stopped moving. He looked at Caz for a long moment, and for the first time, really _saw_ him. He was thin- probably hadn’t eaten properly in a long time -and he was shorter than average. He was fidgeting again, and deliberately avoiding Tommy’s gaze; a complete reversal from a moment before, when he seemed sure of his worth and prepared to make it everyone else’s problem. He seemed to have shrunk, as if he remembered himself, and was regretting his words. But there was still a bit of a spark there, when they did lock eyes. A challenge. Just a touch of “prove me wrong. I dare you.” While it was incredibly unlikely that he was telling the truth, and would actually be of much use, it would be good for him to learn not to make such outrageous claims. Besides, Tommy wanted to see if he could kindle that spark into a flame. Just to see what might come of it. He decided to play along. “See, that,” He pointed, “That’s more what we’re looking for. Although I highly doubt the last one, you could be useful. If you can really do all that.”

“I can. Even the last one,” Caz insisted, “Does this mean you won’t call the parish?”

“We’ll see.” Tommy sat back down. “You can leave, now, if you promise not to run. I have eyes all over the city.”

“I won’t.” Caz opened the door.

“One more thing.”

Caz turned back around.

“Where did you get that coat?”

Casimir looked him straight in the eye. “I stole it off a dead body.”

That was the first time he ever saw Tommy smile.

**Author's Note:**

> The drinking age was set to 18 in 1923. Previously, it was 16.  
> The title and chapter titles are lyrics from songs from Saint Motel


End file.
